


there are thieves, who rob us blind

by sleeponrooftops



Category: Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel, The Incredible Hulk - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, M/M, Mentioned Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 14:04:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4022635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeponrooftops/pseuds/sleeponrooftops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There are people here,” Bruce says, cringing.  There are very few people he can tolerate—Betty, always; Peter, mostly; Wade, sometimes—and then Tony steps in, excited about Russian poetry and words that linger on his soul and James Joyce, and Bruce just doesn’t know what to do with him besides fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there are thieves, who rob us blind

**Author's Note:**

> I miss writing about Bruce. Kudos if you can figure out the literature references; there’s a lot.

_There are thieves, who rob us blind,_

_And kings, who kill us fine._

Bruce looks up as the bell above the door dings.  He can’t see it from where he’s sitting—low on the floor, away from unwanted questions and people who can’t be bothered to find something on their own—but he knows it means that he’ll need to stand up soon.

 

He lingers for a while longer, waiting for the eventual scorn from the owner, Betty, and it comes as he hears feet shuffle past him followed by a pair of quieter, careful set—ones that understand what it means to be surrounded by literature.  “Bruce,” comes Betty’s voice down the stairs as one of them creaks, and he sighs, “On your feet.”

 

He sticks a finger in his book before standing and pulling the stool toward him.  He clambers on, arches his back so that his spine pops, and then curls back over his book.  “Darling,” Betty sighs, tugging on his curls.  He lifts his chin so that he can peek at her.  She taps her thumb against his jaw, says, “Are you not sleeping well, again?” and walks away.

 

Bruce just shrugs and goes back to his book, lifting his legs up so he can fold them together, balancing on the stool.  He can hear the heavier footsteps thundering around somewhere behind him, but the lighter ones, the careful ones, have stopped somewhere and are observing.

 

Peter’s running late, and Bruce is curious as to when he’ll arrive, and if he’ll arrive with his skulking boyfriend, whom Betty seems to adore for no reason at all but that he’s shy and keeps pulling his hat down over his scarred skin, tugging at the hem of his sleeves every so often.  He always seems to be fizzling with energy, trying to be in Peter’s shadow while trying to also _be_ his shadow, but Peter seems to think the world of him, so Bruce just shrugs his incessant talking off.

 

Betty passes by again, throws another question at him, “Heard from Peter yet?”

 

Bruce shakes his head, Betty tugs on his curls again, and then the quiet footsteps move, just once, this quick little step of excitement, and Bruce looks up and over.  From here, he can just make out a tuft of hair, black and wild, bounce into view, and then disappear again.  A hand reaches up, snatches for a book, and then that, too, disappears.

 

He hates when he’s curious.  It’s always so uncomfortable when they come up to buy something, and he forgets to say his pleasantries and instead just wonders what words would make sense of their eyes—the good ones always haunt him for days afterward.

 

The bell dings again, and Bruce looks over, lifts a hand in something that might be a wave, and Peter comes in like he’s being chased, this whirlwind of sound and movement.  “Bruce, you would _not believe_ the day I’ve had.”

 

“Undeniably,” Bruce says, and his mouth quirks up because Wade snickers.

 

“First, it’s fucking cold out, okay, why do we live in this asinine state?  It’s just—”

 

“Asinine,” Wade supplies.

 

“Don’t be rude,” Peter says, trying to flick him, but Wade just jerks away from him and goes to hop up onto the counter, holding onto the edge with one hand while he leans back and reaches under with the other.

 

“Caffeinated,” Bruce says, and Wade makes a wondrous noise as he finally grabs at Bruce’s mug and straightens again with it.  He sips, gags, and turns to Bruce, making a terrible face.  “Lemon,” Bruce amends.

 

“It’s for the birds,” Wade says and hands it over.  Bruce shrugs, thumb in his book again, and accepts it, sipping.  He hums—he’s chilly from the door opening twice now, and it warms his core.

 

“There are people here,” he says when he comes up for air, and Wade dramatically falls off the counter.  “Also, did you bring me food?” he asks, following Peter with his eyes as he comes around the counter.

 

He drops a bag down in front of him before he kneels, rummaging around on their various shelves.  “Apple brie salad,” Peter says, “Told them to take out the chicken and put in cranberries, and I almost got shot.”

 

“You were being pretentious,” Wade says, appearing again suddenly.

 

“Not possible in your vicinity,” Peter says, poking a finger at him without standing up.  Wade bites his finger.  Bruce is already pouring his walnut raspberry dressing over his salad, smiling softly as he listens to them bicker.  They always have interesting conversations, mostly because Wade brings up strange topics.

 

“Boys,” Betty says as she comes by again, and Bruce is starting to think she’s checking up on him, “Did you bring Bruce food?”

 

“Yes, mom,” Peter and Wade say at the same time, and Betty just smiles and leans over to ruffle Peter’s hair before she pecks Wade’s cheek with a soft kiss.  He blushes, tugging his hat down lower, and she just smiles and heads for one of the displays near the front of the shop.

 

“What kind of people?” Peter asks as he jumps up onto the counter, landing easily.  He hands Wade a small, wrapped something that’s probably a burger and opens a bag of fries between them, folding down the paper.

 

“A loud one who thought this might be a nice stop on a date, and a quiet one who got excited over Russian poetry.”

 

“Rilke?”

 

“Ja,” Bruce says, and only Wade understands, nodding solemnly.

 

Wade says something about how flies die, and Bruce listens to them banter for a little bit until the loud ones thud past, stop, and whisper, “Find anything good?”

 

There’s a space of silence until, “You wouldn’t get it.”

 

A sigh, and, “Listen, if you’re going to be a dick, stop asking me to come out with you.”

 

“I get lonely.”

 

“No, you don’t.  You get bored.”

 

“No, I don’t.  You’re just fun to be mean to because you get so flustered.”

 

“Ass.”

 

“Duh.”

 

And then there’s this other kind of silence that forces Bruce to turn back to his book.  No matter what color their eyes are, it doesn’t matter—it’s one of those colors he can’t have, _taken_.

 

The footsteps move, and Bruce slides off his stool with ease, curls up on the floor again with his salad and his book, holds up a hand to accept his mug of tea from Wade—he gets it—and he’s gone by the time they come around to buy whatever the quiet one got excited about.  Peter says, “ _Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man_?  Could’ve sworn I heard you in poetry.”

 

“Joyce was whispering.”

 

Bruce closes his eyes.

 

“I’ll be in the car,” the loud one says, and his footsteps thud away.

 

“Ever read _The Dubliners_?” the quiet one asks.

 

“ _The Dead_ is my favorite,” Bruce says, very softly.

 

“His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.”

 

Bruce keeps his eyes closed.  He bows his head, fingers curled around his mug of tea, salad and book forgotten on the floor, and he pretends he can see him, with his brilliant, bright eyes, blue and burning.

 

The drawer on the cash register chimes and pops open, Peter reaches over to make change, and then he’s gone, and Bruce forgets to breathe until Peter reaches down and tugs on his curls.  “My god, I wish you’d stood up.”

 

“That,” is all Wade says, and Bruce opens his eyes.

 

“I know,” Bruce says, “I could feel it in my fingers.”

 

_But steady, the rights and the wrongs,_

_Invade us, as innocent song._

 

A week later, Bruce is running late, and it’s making him itchy.  Betty officially went on vacation yesterday, and he’s never been late a day in his life, but there’s a bruise blooming across his eyes, the bridge of his nose aching where his father’s knuckles fell, and he couldn’t see for a few seconds.

 

And so now, when he gets to the shop, Peter is already there, bouncing up and down, his hands shoved in his pockets, his hat pulled down so low that his wild hair isn’t sticking out from under it.  “Fuckin’ Christ almighty, I’m balls cold, hurry up!” he shouts down the street, receiving a few glares from a pair of elderly couples across the street on their way to breakfast.

 

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Bruce mutters, hurrying down the street.

 

When he finally gets there, Peter starts swearing and walking past him, but Bruce catches his elbow and spins him back around.  “Not worth it,” he says quietly before he opens the door and lets them in.

 

“Not fucking worth it,” Peter says loudly as he follows him in, “Let me see.”

 

Bruce lets himself be turned as the door clangs behind them, and he flinches when it bangs back open and then closes again.  Peter’s fingers are rough against him—he’s always playing with wires—and he pulls away.  “I’m fine,” he says and walks away.

 

Peter lets him—he always does—and Bruce goes to start upending his person onto the counter.  Peter bangs around the shop until he calls out, “Still working on Kerouac?”

 

“I guess,” Bruce says, pausing once his scarf, jacket, and bag are on the counter.  His shoulders slump forward a little, and he stares down at his hands, fingers curled around the edge of the counter, trembling as he tries not to cry.  His nose is throbbing, and he can feel something that he desperately hopes is not a migraine, but his bones are starting to ache.

 

Peter knows not to touch him, but Bruce can feel him wanting to hug his problems away, which never works anyway, so Peter just sets down _On the Road_ , drops the bucket of tea on the counter, waits for Bruce to pick one, and then disappears again.

 

When he reappears, Bruce is curled up behind the counter, head tipped back, scarf draped over his eyes, so Peter just leaves the tea next to his foot and goes to start stocking.

 

It’s quiet until Bruce’s tea is warm instead of hot, and then the bell dings, and he whispers, “Peter, come back.”  He doesn’t hear him, but Bruce knows he’ll feel his anxiety, and before long, his familiar footsteps make their way past him.

 

“Looking for something in particular?” Peter asks in his friendly drawl.  He never talks to Bruce that way, only in a way that reminds him they’re sometimes a little more than people who work together, and he’s always grateful for the way Peter treats him, with caution and respect.

 

“Not you,” a voice says, and Bruce jumps so quickly, his shoulder hits the counter and rattles through him.  “No offense,” he continues, “But you were with that fire kid last time, right?”  Peter bristles.  “Sorry,” though he sounds a little bored, “Foot in mouth disease.  Steve’s always telling me I should wear a muzzle, and that’s usually when I leave.”

 

“Leave?” Peter asks, and Bruce knows it’s because he’s curious about everything.

 

Bruce feels him shrug rather than sees it, feels something heavy sift through his otherwise careful feet, and it makes him thud his head back a little, closes his eyes and listens to the way he breathes before he says, “We don’t always see eye to eye.”  It sounds like it hurts.

 

“Well,” Peter says, and Bruce grins a second before he continues, “You are short.”

 

“Whatever, limbs,” he says, tossing him a careless eye roll before he starts looking around the shop front, “So, is he here?”

 

“Who?”

 

“Peter,” Bruce whispers, too quiet for anyone but his own ears to hear it, and he doesn’t know why he says it, because he can’t want what he can’t have, that’s not how this works, that’s how his father works.

 

“The other one.  The one I couldn’t see, the one I—” he pauses like there’s something unknowable resting so deep inside of him that he wants to unhinge his body and let it come screaming out.

 

Peter leans so close, the counter creaks.  “He doesn’t need that kind of unfaithfulness in his life.”

 

“It’s not—”  He’s frustrated, probably dragging a hand roughly through his hair as he fights the urge to snap something nasty at Peter—he seems like the kind of person that would let nasty words fill up inside him until they ate away at his soul and darkened its edges.  “It’s not like that,” he finally spits out, “It’s—I could feel his voice.”

 

Bruce closes his eyes.

 

His father’s knuckles drum against his doorframe, a threat hanging in the air as he grins, something feral that sneaks out and sends a shiver down his spine.  He hates the way his voice sounds in his alcohol-soaked breath.

 

“Tell him I called?”

 

“Does he even get a name?” Peter asks, and Bruce can hear how much he already doesn’t like this man, and it makes his bones ache.

 

“Tony.”

 

And then he’s gone.

 

——

 

He always likes the bookstore best at sunset.  In the winter, they close a little earlier just because it’s so frigid out, but Bruce always likes to keep it open just past sunset, to let the chill settle in his bones before he heads out.

 

Peter went home an hour ago, so it’s just him cleaning up the store front, and he has his back turned to the door when it opens, the bell chiming.  “Closing with the sunset,” he says quietly as he finishes sweeping and goes over to the counter to empty the trashcan.

 

There are no footsteps on the floor, and he stops at the counter, looking over.  He knows it’s Tony without having to ask, with his blue eyes that burn like hundreds of stones through a high sun.  He has wild hair, sticking up in all sorts of directions, but it looks like he’s put it there on purpose.  He’s got some facial hair on his jaw, and he’s dressed inappropriately for the cold, in tight jeans and a loose leather jacket with no gloves and barely a scarf.

 

“Hey,” Tony says, in this voice that trips across the room and sinks into Bruce’s toes.

 

Bruce just blinks at him, but then Tony opens his mouth, so he says quickly, “Something wrong with your copy of _Portrait_?”

 

Tony is across the room faster than Bruce knows how to react, and his fingers are so soft when they skim the bridge of his nose, brush under one of his eyes.  “Who did this to you?”

 

“You’re not allowed to ask that,” Bruce says, and he can’t flinch away, he’s forgotten how.

 

Tony lingers there for a second before he steps back and asks, “Can I walk you home?”

 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.  You—”

 

“Tea, then?  There’s this incredible shop they just opened down the street.”

 

“Um,” Bruce stammers.

 

“Tea, then,” Tony decides for him, “I’ll let you make the final jump.  See you after sunset.”

 

He leaves without waiting for Bruce to react, and he doesn’t even have time to when he’s gone.  He lets his words mull over as he finishes closing, and he’s just tugging on his jacket over his sweater when the sun dips behind a building, and the shop’s temperature really starts to drop.  He quickly dons his scarf and hat, pulls on a pair of gloves, and grabs his bag.

 

When he gets outside, he goes right without even thinking about it, and he’s in front of the coffee shop in less than three minutes.  He looks in through the window and finds Tony immediately, his back on the floor with his legs up in the air against one of the walls, a mug of something frothy next to his head.  He’s reading Joyce, held up in the air, and people are staring at him, and Bruce tries to rub off his smile, but it won’t go away.

 

He opens the door and steps inside, eyes closing as he breathes in the beauty of ground beans and something that reminds him vaguely of twigs.  He orders something to put whatever Tony has to shame because chaider—chai tea with apple cider—is the greatest thing since the moon.

 

Bruce has been doing yoga for years, whether to heal his aching bones or his throbbing head, and so it comes naturally to him to set his mug down next to Tony, scoot up until he’s close to the wall, and raise his legs up onto it.

  
The barista sighs loudly, and Bruce tries to feel embarrassed, but then one of Tony’s hands skims along his, and Bruce stops breathing.  “Stop,” he whispers, and Tony does.

 

“Can you feel my voice?” Tony whispers back.

 

“You walked like you knew words needed stillness until opened.”

 

“That’s when the real adventure starts.”

 

“Have you ever read _Into the Wild_?”

 

“Seen the movie,” Tony says, and Bruce leans up a little to sip his chaider.

 

“Peter’s reading it.  He gets so angry.”

 

Tony laughs, this quiet thing meant only for Bruce’s ears, and then it’s cut short.  Bruce looks up as one of the baristas approaches, this tall, gruff man that has no business handling fragile mugs and careful, foamy designs.  “Stop being a douche,” he snarls down at Tony, “Get up.”

 

“I’m quite comfortable, thanks,” Tony says, sipping his frothy drink and closing his eyes as he relaxes deeper into the pose.

 

“Don’t make me call the police again to extract you.  Your name means nothing anymore, Stark.  Get up.”

 

“Then why use it?  Orphans don’t have any right to be singular, isn’t that what you told me last time?”

 

“Last time, you were doing a handstand.”

 

“Last time, you said my drink would be ready in seven minutes.  Fairly precise for a drink that came twelve minutes later.  Half time late.”

 

“Fuck you, Tony.  Get up, and get out.”

 

Tony swivels his head over to look at Bruce.  This time, when his hand skims Bruce’s, he doesn’t even exhale.  Instead, he asks, “How’s your headache?”

 

“Better,” Tony responds before he lets his feet down and gets up.  He downs the rest of his drink, hands the mug to their barista, and then drops his hand back down.  Bruce knows he’s meant to take it, and he tries his very best not to, but his fingers look like they understand the way pages are meant to be turned, and so he carefully takes his hand and lets himself be pulled upright.

 

“Bye, Logan,” Tony says, mouth splitting in an awful grin before he leads Bruce away, releasing his hand because he can feel his anxiety.

 

When they get outside, Bruce has to ask, “When did that open?”

 

“A month ago.  Logan and I dated, briefly, in high school.”

 

“Which was how long ago?”

 

“Smooth,” Tony says before he stops, facing Bruce, “Tony, age 23, experimenting with being an orphan for two years, unhappily taken.”

 

“Bruce, age 23, also, running from paternal abuse for nineteen years without understanding how to run.”  Tony nods.  Bruce doesn’t blink.  The silence grows too long, and he needs to get out.  “Don’t do this to either of us,” he says before he walks away, and Tony lets him.

 

_I’m not ready,_

_For the weight of us._

 

It’s a month before he returns.

 

In that time, Bruce has been hospitalized once and crashed on Peter’s sofa for a week before his father finally calmed down, and though it’s still a hostile environment, Bruce feels a little better when he leaves for work that morning.

 

It’s quiet when he gets there, two hours after Betty has opened, and he takes his time unloading his person onto the counter as he listens to her move around upstairs.  The shop has three floors, the first two dedicated to books, and the third is a small apartment that Bruce has stopped himself several times from asking Betty if he can stay there.  He has enough money saved up to move out and live on his own, but he can’t imagine leaving his father, doesn’t want to fathom his reaction.

 

“Good morning, darling,” Betty says as she comes by, tugging on his curls, “How was your first weekend back with your father?”

 

Bruce shrugs one shoulder.  “Okay.”  He has something to ask her, but he’s not sure he wants to be the one to broach this topic with her, especially because Peter’s been avoiding it all month.

 

Betty walks past him twice more before she notices Bruce hasn’t taken up his usual seat, and she pauses by the counter, taking him by the elbow and steering him around.  “Peter wants less hours,” Bruce says as he climbs onto his stool and stretches out his legs.

 

“I thought that might be coming,” Betty says, and she leans back against the counter, watching Bruce watching her.  “What should we do?”

 

“Hire someone.”  Bruce cringes as he says it.  “A person,” he clarifies because, really, he’d like to hire a cat to come in and curl up on the counter so that he could occasionally pat it, but he doesn’t think that Betty would approve.  “Or a cat,” he adds because she also might.

 

“You’ve already tried that,” Betty says, tipping her head back, “He told me this new semester was going to be hard, but he thought he might be able to handle the same hours with the added class.  Have anyone in mind?”  She looks at him.

 

He really shouldn’t say it.

 

“My ears were ringing,” Tony’s voice says as the bell chimes over the door, and Bruce jerks so hard, he tumbles off the stool and ends up on the floor.  He neck and cheeks burn red as Betty laughs softly and turns around.  Bruce remains on the ground, pulling his knees up to him.

 

“Are you the Stark kid?” she asks outright.

 

Tony actually blinks.  “I am.  What of it?” he asks.

 

“Want a job?”

 

“ _Here_?”

 

“Peter wants less hours,” Bruce says quietly.

 

There’s a space of silence, and then, “Okay.”

 

Bruce thinks this is probably a bad idea.

 

——

 

Tony starts the next week.  Betty gets all his paperwork filled out and signed the day she offers him the job, and then she’s working up a schedule, Peter’s apologizing every time he sees her for the next two days until she messes up his hair so bad, Wade snorts from laughing.  And then Tony’s first day comes, and Bruce wants to hide.

 

He does, actually.

 

He knows there’s no way he can actually do that because Betty hired him as a full time employee when he started, and even when he’s not working, sometimes he just appears between the shelves, curled around a book.  And so, when the new week starts on Sunday, Bruce is feeling itchy when he opens up and heads in.

 

It’s getting warmer out, little by little, but he’s still bundled up, and so he discards his scarf, hat, and gloves on the counter before reaching around to dump his bag behind it.  His jacket he leaves draped over the stool because Peter asked for the weekend off to be with Wade, and they received a huge shipment of books the night before.

 

Bruce gets to work hauling in the boxes from the back room and leaving them in the display room, stacked haphazardly until he can start sorting through and labeling.  He loves stocking only sometimes, when he’s feeling unsure in his skin, and he needs something to distract him.

 

He’s on his last box when the door opens, and he almost drops it.  He means to stammer a hello, but Tony just—well, he’s there, and that’s good enough.

 

He’s all hipster winter, with tight fitting jeans, black boots that may or may not be untied on purpose, a loose red sweater, and a black leather jacket.  He’s had the decency to wear a hat, but his hair is sticking out in odd angles from under it, and it looks strange until he pulls the hat off and scrubs a hand through his hair, and that’s when Bruce notices it’s shorter on the sides, and he can’t explain it, but he wants to _touch_.

 

“Keep gawking, I know I’m beautiful,” Tony says as he strolls in, lifting one hand in greeting, and Bruce _smiles_.  “Woah, watch out, you might say hello soon.”

 

“Coffee?” Bruce asks instead of hello.

 

“Something with raspberry in it.  I asked the barista what people with curly hair liked, and she said raspberry, so I added some chocolate.”

 

“Hello,” Bruce says, his smile widening before he puts down the box.

 

“Hello yourself,” Tony says, coming over.

 

His fingers linger against Bruce’s when he hands over the coffee, and Bruce tries his best not to drop it.  He succeeds, but only because he immediately puts it on the counter and turns back to the boxes.  Tony doesn’t waste anytime unraveling himself on the counter before he’s coming to help.

 

Bruce starts to tell him to go away, remembers Peter saying that wasn’t polite human conversation, and just sighs and starts opening boxes.  Tony stands there for a few seconds before he reaches for his coffee and walks away.

 

Bruce pauses, hand stuck inside a box, as he listens to Tony wander around the store.  He murmurs softly to himself, and Bruce hears a few of them, little notations about where things are, possible changes to bring up with Betty before he corrects himself and says, “Maybe Bruce, too.  He probably knows better,” and a few stray exhales of enthrallment when he finds something.

 

When he finally wanders his way back to the front, he’s got a stack of books in his arms, and he shoves Bruce’s jacket off the stool after putting them on the counter.  Bruce watches him with narrowed eyes as he reaches for the stool, starts to sit, and then catches Bruce watching him.

 

“Okay,” he says, resting back on his feet, “Clearly not.  Am I allowed to sit?”

 

Bruce just returns to his boxes.

 

Tony makes an obnoxious face at him and goes to loot around the front until he finds a comfortable armchair and drags it over behind the counter, bumping Bruce as he does so, who stands abruptly and heads for the stairs, one of the boxes under his arms.

 

His suspicions were correct.  This was a bad idea.

 

——

 

A few hours pass, and then Tony gets less annoying because Bruce realizes what he’s doing.  On his third trip back downstairs to get another box, he notices that Tony has read through two books and placed them separate from his stack.  A few books from one of the boxes are resting precariously on the arm of his chair, and he’s casually flicking through them, sorting them accordingly.

 

“Will you put them away correctly?” Bruce asks.

 

“I just want to get to know them,” Tony says without looking up, and Bruce nods.  He might not have to kill him off just yet.

 

Betty arrives late that day.

 

By the time she gets there, Bruce is reconsidering his last feelings toward Tony because not only has he taken over half of the stocking operation, he’s playing something annoying on his phone, something with a deep voice that reminds Bruce of the way his father roars when he’s drunk enough that he falls over, and he wants nothing more than to go up into the apartment and curl up on the bed, pull a pillow over his head and pretend Tony doesn’t exist.

 

When she opens the door, she stops immediately, frowning.  Bruce is restocking one of the front display shelves angrily, and it hurts her to see his only safe place disrupted.  He only just hears her approach him, but he still flinches when she lays a careful hand on his arm and whispers, “I’ll talk to him.”

 

He bows his head toward her in thanks, and he doesn’t mean to be petulant, but this is the only place he has left that feels secure anymore.

 

Two minutes later, the music disappears, Betty calls Tony’s name, and then Bruce is being confronted.

 

“Listen, asshat,” Tony barks as he comes in from the back.

 

Bruce looks toward the door, expecting someone unpleasant, and then he realizes Tony is talking to him.  He turns toward him next, a frown creasing his brow.

 

Tony is so close, he can smell his caramel breath.  “If you want things done your perfect little way, fucking speak up.”

 

“ _Tony_ ,” Betty snaps furiously.

 

“Don’t take your shit out on me by huffing and puffing around like some big bad wolf.  You want the music off?  Say fucking so.  You want me to go screw and man the register while you unload _seven_ boxes of books yourself?  Give me a fucking word.  I’m not doing this mime shit with you, not after—”

 

“Vandalizing a public wall with our legs?” Bruce supplies for him.

 

Tony is reaching in and tearing open something deep inside of him, and he can’t remember the last time he stood his ground, but he can’t be beaten here _and_ there, he refuses to.

 

“What did I say to you?” he asks quietly, but Tony is too stunned by his first statement to spit something nasty at him, “Don’t do this to either of us.  This is _my_ home.  If you want to come in here like a whirlwind trying to impress someone you can’t have, go back to your barista boyfriend.”

 

Tony deflates.

 

His whole body sags, his sharp shoulders rounding down as his chin drops and he looks away, blue eyes losing their flame a heartbeat before he murmurs, “I’m sorry.”

 

Bruce feels like he might need to run a marathon to quell this energy bubbling through him.  “I need some air,” he says instead, and he leaves everything but his jacket.

 

He doesn’t return until an hour before sunset, and Betty has finished putting away the boxes.  Tony is sitting at the counter, one leg tucked underneath him while he balances on the stool, the other leg pulled up close to him, jaw resting on his knee as he reads.

 

“Joyce?” Bruce asks as he comes in.

 

“Wilde,” Tony says as he looks up, and Bruce might’ve stopped if Tony had looked at him like that any other time, but now he just keeps walking, and Tony keeps looking.  “Steve never tells me what he wants,” Tony says as Bruce sheds his jacket, “When I’m bored, I like to tap morse code onto whatever available surface there is, usually just lyrics stuck in my head or a paragraph I can’t forget, and it’s just always been this thing I do, but apparently he hates it.  He flipped out at me once during dinner, got so angry he broke his wineglass, and then I can never remember what happened afterward because my father hit me with a plate once, and I remember so vividly how it felt when they took one of the porcelain pieces out of my shoulder.”

 

Now, Bruce stops and stares.

 

He wants to share a scar story with Tony, but he’s not ready, so instead he just reaches out and very lightly touches the back of Tony’s hand with his fingertips.  It says enough.

 

——

 

Bruce is closing the following Sunday, and with Tony there—comfortably there, which is important—he doesn’t feel the need to come in early, so instead, he heads past the bookstore just before noon so he can surprise Tony with something warm and syrupy.  However, when noon rolls around, and he nudges open the door, sending the bell chiming, he swallows his smile.

 

Tony is in his armchair, legs folded underneath him, and Steve is doing something that Bruce can only describing as attacking.  Tony’s clearly in a defensive position, his shoulders hunched back against the chair, one of his hands holding his book stiffly, finger caught between the pages, and he’s looking at Steve, but he isn’t seeing him.

 

“All I’m asking is for you to fucking answer me,” Steve’s voice is hard and violent.

 

Tony doesn’t respond.  In a step so quick, Bruce barely sees it, Steve jerks forward, grabs the wrist holding Tony’s book, and yanks.  Tony’s gaze snaps up to him, sees him now.  “It was one missed call.”

 

“It was four.  I needed you, and you weren’t there.”

 

“Steve,” he tries, but Steve just throws his arm back, and Tony winces when it hits the back of the chair.

 

He stops trying after that and lets Steve berate him until a chill sweeps past Bruce and sneaks under the hem of Steve’s jeans, and then he turns.  Bruce can see he wants to say something, but he isn’t volatile like Tony, just hostile.

 

It isn’t meant for his ears when Steve turns back and demands, “Is this about him?”

 

“Fuck off,” Tony says, standing, and Steve’s fingers find his elbow again, tug him in close, and Bruce has to look away when he kisses him because it feels like something no one should witness, Tony included.

 

“I have work until six.  Are you coming over after?”

 

“Maybe, I—”

 

“Tony.”

 

“Okay,” Tony concedes.

 

Steve keeps holding onto his elbow until Tony tries to step back, and he says, his voice softer, warmer, “I love you.”

 

Tony twists out of his hold and sits down again.  “I love you, too,” he tells his knee as he reaches for his book.

 

When Steve’s gone, Bruce lingers at the edge of the counter for a long time until Tony folds his knees up to his chest, one arm extending along the seat of the armchair, and then Bruce moves.  He dumps his things on the floor, leaving his bag on the stool so he can reach it comfortably while he sifts around inside, looking for his book.

 

“Are you coming here?” Tony asks like he already knows the answer, and it’s because he does.

 

Bruce snatches a pillow from one of the many shelves under the counter, leans it against the armchair to protect his tailbone, and then he sits, Tony’s fingers skimming the back of his neck.  He shivers, and then Tony lets his hand slowly come up, fingers threading through Bruce’s hair until his knuckles bend, and he scratches lightly at his skull.

 

“Read to me,” Tony whispers, head tipping back against the armchair as he memorizes each curl.

 

“riverrun,” Bruce begins easily, and Tony smiles, this delicate, flitting thing, “past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.”

 

“Interesting choice,” Tony comments, and from there it’s a rambling mess of French and jibberish and absurdly long lines until Tony is feeling loose and calm and _soft_ , and then Bruce exhales slowly.

 

“Undo lives ‘end.  Slain.”

 

And Tony wants to kiss him, so he tugs on a curl, and he can feel Bruce’s smile echo through his body and up into a dark spot on his soul, eradicating some of his gloom.

 

“Thank you,” Tony whispers.

 

_There’s a cold heart, buried beneath,_

_And warm blood, running deep._

It’s been a lifetime since he saw Peter, and so working with him the next weekend brings him so much joy, Peter starts cackling at his grin while Wade reaches over to pinch his cheeks.  “Get a job,” Bruce mutters because he knows it’ll set off Wade, who erupts into this long speech about the latest project he’s been making money off of, and the worst part is, his schemes actually work.  Peter mostly works because he gets bored and hates freeloading off of Wade’s endless stream of money.

 

“And,” Peter always adds, “Someday, someone out there is going to see you for the crook you are and refuse to pay you, and then your reputation is going to be stained black, and what will you do then?”

 

“Whore.”

 

That always makes Bruce laugh and Peter sigh, and then they usually talk about how Wade will never want sex again, so how is that a good solution for Peter, which is when Bruce stops listening and instead goes to find something to do in the shop.

 

Today, he finds himself upstairs, straightening for a while until he finds something to read, and then he curls up on the futon in the back and gets lost in India.  The air is hot and sticky, sucking out his breaths faster than he’s ready to release them, and it’s only under the shade of a sudden tree that he finds his inhales again.

 

He inhales it deeply, whatever it is today, “And the air was full of Thoughts and Things to Say.  But at times like these, only the Small Things are ever said.  Big Things lurk unsaid inside.”

 

The bell chimes.

 

Bruce knows it’s good for business, but he finds it so unknowably bothersome when there are _people_ in the shop.  Their careless fingers pick up his books and let their pages chase each other flippantly before they drop them back down, and he always has to run his fingers over the spines of the abused ones and remind them that they’re worth reading.

 

He knows the footsteps that follow the bell, though, and they make him sit, make him frown.  Tony asked for the weekend off to spend some time with Steve, and he can’t imagine Steve would want to come here, not after last time, but that’s his thud, thud, thud.

 

He really doesn’t mean to make Steve out to be this big, thundering oaf, and he knows he’s certainly not, but Tony is so much _more_ than him, in so many ways, and he can’t make sense of them.

 

Then again, people always try to tell him they can’t understand why he doesn’t just leave home, and so he can make sense of them, because why would Tony leave Steve if Bruce can’t even leave his own father?

 

“You have to see the upstairs,” Steve’s voice floats around the words, and they cringe at his unfaithfulness as a pair of unfamiliar footsteps follow him toward the stairs.

 

Bruce just sits there with his elephants and British invaders and secret kisses as he pretends not to hear them coming up the stairs.  The second set is not as heavy as Steve’s, though he still doesn’t understand.  Bruce leans over to the side to catch them coming around the corner of the stairs, and Steve moves like he’s been in this loft for years, like he knows where every nook and cranny is, and so Bruce glares at the empty air behind him until a head of messy brown hair appears.  It’s followed by curious brown eyes and a handsome, smooth face.  He looks like someone that belongs with Steve, someone that could understand him and talk to him without wondering if his words were strung together too quickly, too elegantly.

 

Bruce reminds himself to stop making Steve into an oaf.  He’s not.  But he doesn’t belong with Tony, not with his extraordinary adoration for the way words weld together to form something intricate and disastrous.

 

They float around the second floor, whispering to each other, pointing out interesting titles and laughing at ones that make no sense to them.  “I don’t understand how some novels get published,” Steve says, and Bruce knows exactly which book he’s lifted when he continues, “there ain’t no journey what don’t change you some.”

 

His friend smiles so unsurely, Bruce feels it creak through the floorboards.  “What’s the point if you can’t form a correct sentence?” Steve goes on.

 

He puts the book back in time for his friend to say, “I think that’s the point sometimes.  I think he’s doing a dialect.”

 

“It’s like being in high school all over again.  People used to get so angry with me for not being into literature.  I don’t see why an art major needs to also love reading.  Charcoal is a language I understand better.”

 

“To each his own,” his friend says, and Bruce refrains from mimicking his shrug.

 

Without warning, Steve comes around the corner and stops.  “Oh,” he says when he sees Bruce sitting there, “Sorry, didn’t know you were up here.  Are you working today?”

 

Bruce nods.

 

“It’s nice when it’s slow, it seems,” he comments as his friend comes around the corner and sees Bruce there, as well.  Bruce just stares at him.  He hates him.  “Why are you only ever staring?” Steve asks abruptly.

 

“This was the trouble with families,” Bruce says softly, turning his gaze back down to his book, “Like invidious doctors, they knew just where it hurt.”

 

Steve understands a heartbeat too late, and then he walks away, leaving his friend standing there in his wake, uncertain.  “I’m Bucky,” he introduces, trying for a smile.  Bruce looks back up.  “Are you a friend of Steve’s?”

 

“Not likely,” Bruce says, and then he sticks his thumb in his book and unfolds from the futon.  He straightens himself, says, “You shouldn’t be, either.  He’s taken,” and follows Steve’s direction, though with lighter steps, mindful of the shelves.

 

Bucky stands there, unmoving.

 

Bruce leaves him, wondering what Steve thinks he’s doing, and he wishes he hadn’t thought it because then there he is, pouting at the end of the stairs, arms folded across his chest.  “I know your type,” he snaps at Bruce, “Stay away from Tony.”

 

Bruce tries to walk past him, but Steve grabs his arm, and he fights the urge to curl in on himself, to wait for the next blow, but he knows Steve wouldn’t do something like that—at least, not to him.  He’s not sure about Tony.

 

He takes a breath, inhales the sticky air, and blows it back at Steve, “Then find a way to be close with him.”

 

Steve releases him without meaning to.  Bruce does his best not to run and hide, but he still ends up in the backroom, trying to breathe.

 

——

 

Bruce stretches, cat-like, his spine popping.  It’s Monday, and he’s been stooped over for far too long, but as he hops off his stool, the door opens, admitting Steve.

 

“Hi,” Steve says sheepishly as he comes in.

 

Bruce just looks at him.

 

“Uh.”  He rubs the back of his neck and looks away, but Bruce just keeps staring—the audacity of him.  He doesn’t know what to say to him, how to react to him, but then Steve saves him the trouble, “About the other day.  I think we can both agree Tony doesn’t need to know about that.  Like you said, just where it hurts.”

 

“That’s on you,” Bruce says, dog-earing his book and leaving it on the counter.

 

“Oh, whatever,” Steve sighs, coming forward and dropping a bag on the counter, “That’s for Tony.  I won’t see him before work.  Please try to be civil.”

 

“With you?”

 

“Goodbye,” Steve says, and leaves.

 

Bruce doesn’t watch him leave.  Instead, he gets to work on the small cart of misplaced books.  And then, before he realizes what’s happening, it’s _busy_.

 

He despises the feeling of not having enough time, but every time he tries to return to his cart, there’s someone asking him a question or waiting to be rung up or adding something to the cart.  By the time Tony does arrive, he’s surprised he hasn’t gone upstairs to hide.

 

“Holy cow,” Tony says as he comes in, startling a group of girls in the front room, looking at one of their displays.  One of them giggles, and Tony notices, looking over sharply with one quirked eyebrow, and she quickly turns back to her friends to whisper.  “How many people are in here?” he asks as he approaches the counter, where Bruce is leaning against it, head in his hands.

 

He lifts a hand to thread through Bruce’s curls, coming down to rub at the base of his skull as he starts unraveling on the counter, and Bruce actually groans softly, leaning into his touch.  “At least six,” he says tiredly.

 

“That’s a lot of human interaction for you,” Tony says, and Bruce sighs.  He hears the rustle of paper, and he looks over to find Tony peering inside the brown paper bag.  He’s still got one hand in Bruce’s hair, carding through his curls lightly.

 

“The fuck is this?”

 

Bruce shrugs one shoulder.

 

Tony pulls out the bagel inside, takes his hand out of Bruce’s hair, and opens it.  “Motherfucker, that has _chives_ in it.”

 

“And onions,” Bruce points them out.

 

“Is this from Steve?”

 

Bruce nods, and then finally returns to his cart, sighing when he finds it in disarray.  When he brings it around to the front, Tony is on the phone, “First, fuck you.  I’m allergic to chives, asshole.”

 

Except his phone is on speaker because Tony is tearing out of his jacket and needs both hands.  “How am I supposed to remember every single thing you’re allergic to?” Steve snarls back.

 

“Because I’m allergic to _two fucking things_ —chives and bees.  There’s no possible way you could have remembered either of those?  Who the fuck even eats an onion and chive bagel?  That’s disgusting.”

 

“I was trying to do something nice, god forbid.”

 

“It would be nice if you weren’t expressly trying to kill me.”

 

“Oh, for—seriously, Tony, I’m not trying to _kill_ you.”

 

“You know dinner tonight?”

 

“Tony—”

 

“Fuck you,” and he hangs up.

 

Bruce comes up behind him, lifts a stack off the cart, and sets it down on the counter.  He leans over the cart, tugs on Tony’s sleeve, and heads off toward one of the front displays.

 

It works.  Tony smiles as he watches him walk away, and then he grabs his stack, and starts sorting before he heads off into the store.

 

Their day continues to be busy.  Around four, Bruce finally realizes school isn’t in today, and that’s why they’ve had so much business.  By five, he’s actually tired, and he starts hunting through the shop for Tony, surprised when he goes upstairs and finds him curled up on the futon, asleep.

 

He pauses by one of the shelves, just watching him, unsure if he should approach him.  His father likes to grab his shoulder and haul him off whatever surface he’s sleeping on to wake him up, and so he’s always careful about rousing people.

 

However, he wants to go home—or somewhere, he just doesn’t want to be here anymore, it’s making him feel too anxious—and so he walks carefully along the shelf, kneels in front of Tony, and starts to lift a hand when he notices how red and raw the skin under his eyes looks.

 

“Tony,” he whispers, reaching out to tentatively touch his hair, brushing it away from his forehead lightly.

 

Tony hums.  “I hope you’re not Steve,” he mumbles.

 

“Curlier,” Bruce says, and Tony laughs like he’s broken inside.

 

He untucks a hand from against his chest and holds it out, so Bruce sits down and tangles their fingers together.  He waits, letting Tony wallow until he turns his face back toward the futon, and there’s something that might be a tear welling in his eye, so Bruce squeezes his hand.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

 

“Only if you mean it,” Bruce says.

 

“I don’t.  My parents died three years ago.”

 

“Today?”

 

“Three years ago.  Pay attention,” Tony says, and it makes him smile, so Bruce pats his hand gently and stands up.  “I know, it’s time for you to leave.”  Bruce shrugs his shoulders back and forth before sighing.  “You gonna bring me back dinner?”  Bruce makes a face at him.  “Thai, no chives.”

 

“Curry.”

 

“You’re my hero.”

 

And somehow, Bruce ends up going out for Thai, bringing it back, and spending the rest of the night sitting with Tony.  He doesn’t mind because it’s quiet by the time he gets back, and Tony talks his ear off until he asks Bruce a question about something interesting, and then he’s actually talking back, and Tony just grins and considers it a success.

 

——

 

Something happens over the next two months.

 

Bruce and Tony often have shifts that fall together.  They bring each other things sometimes, whether it’s coffee or food or, one time, when it’s nice enough that they’re both only wearing sweatshirts, Tony brings ice cream.  Bruce stays late, and Tony comes in early.

 

When Steve shows up, Bruce finds something else to do, and when customers come in, Tony distracts them from him so he can continue reading under the counter.

 

Once, a few days after the chives incident, Bruce very quietly says, “Steve came in here with another man the other day.”

 

“Bucky?” Tony asks nonchalantly.  Bruce just stares, so Tony says, “I’ve known for a while.  He thinks he’s being secretive.  Moving on.”

 

And they move on.

 

A couple days after that, Steve comes in with a peace treaty, actually waving a small white flag as he brings in muffins.  Tony tries to ignore him, but then Steve dips down and kisses his jaw, and Tony sighs, looking up at him.  “I’m mad at you,” he says.

 

“No, you’re not,” Steve says, one thumb coming up to trace along Tony’s jaw, and Tony sighs, lifting his head higher.

 

“Say you’re sorry,” Tony says petulantly.

 

“I’m sorry for getting you a chives and onion bagel when I know your favorite is onion and cheese, which is weird, for the record,” Steve says, leaning down to kiss his forehead.

 

“And?” Tony prompts.

 

“I’m sorry for being a dick.  I’m sorry that I hurt you.  I’m sorry, Tony.”

 

“Okay,” Tony says, and then he lets Steve kiss him, this soft, careful thing that he’s glad the shop is empty for because later, when Steve leaves, he goes upstairs and cries.

 

Two weeks after that, Betty has implemented this new plan, and they’re trying to carry it out while Peter starts mapping it out, so they’ve got a cart full of books that need to move, and Bruce is taking them off the shelves when something catches his eye, and he opens to the first page, reading.  Before he realizes it, he’s on the second page, Tony is staring at him, and he has to look up at him when he flips the page because, at some point, he sat down.  He lifts a hand up, and Tony understands, sitting instead of pulling him up.  He inclines his head toward Bruce in his silent language, and Bruce shares what he’s found.

 

It’s not until the beginning of May that Bruce starts to feel bad for how he’s been getting closer and closer to Tony because they’re in the middle of eating a late lunch one day when Steve comes in, holding a thing of coffees.

 

“You are the best boyfriend there ever was,” Tony says immediately, grinning widely.  Steve comes over, and Tony hops off the counter as he approaches, holding out a hand.

 

Steve hands over the coffees, and even as Tony is turning to put them on the counter, Steve’s arms go around his middle, and he burrows against him, face tucking into his neck.  “I love you,” he kisses the words into Tony’s skin.

 

Tony’s eyes close, this slow flutter of his eyelashes as his hands trace along Steve’s arms and come to rest against his wrists, holding him there as he turns his head toward him and kisses his jaw.  “I love you, too,” Tony whispers, and Bruce looks away.

 

“What are you guys up to?” Steve asks as he finally pulls away.

 

“Late lunch,” Tony says, “I have some leftover, if you’re hungry.”

 

“Starving, thanks.”

 

Steve spends some time with them, and Bruce is starting to disappear, so he takes his physical body with him and heads upstairs to read on his futon.

 

He’s been up there for an hour when Betty comes up to find him.  “Who’s the cute blonde with Tony?” she asks as she comes around the corner.  Bruce makes a face, and Betty laughs.  “Fair enough.  Darling, I need to talk to you.”

 

Bruce immediately puts a finger in his book and looks up, eyes following her as she comes toward him and sits next to him.  She smiles softly, pulls up her legs, and says, “I need to rent out the apartment.  I hadn’t anticipated taking on another employee this year, and I’m struggling a little, especially with business being so wretched.  I’d like to offer it to you first.  This is your chance, Bruce.  You need to get out of there, and I know it’s forward of me to say, but—”

 

“Okay,” Bruce says softly, smiling, “Thank you, Betty.”

 

“I’m going to hug you, and you can’t stop it.”

 

He’s grateful for the warning, and he sinks into her arms when she embraces him, exhaling warmth against his neck.  “Thank you,” he whispers, and Betty just squeezes him tighter.

 

The following weekend, Betty reworks the schedule so Bruce has time to pack and move in, and then Sunday rolls around, and Tony is absolutely _freezing_ , and he and Bruce are supposed to be opening together because Betty and Peter are going to start inventory and stay late until Bruce comes in early to finish.  Bruce is never late, and it’s starting to make him anxious that it’s a quarter past nine, and he’s still not here.

 

It’s almost nine thirty by the time he finally sees Bruce trudging toward him, and there’re two girls waiting impatiently on his other side.  “I’m sorry,” Tony says for the third time as Bruce gets closer, “He’s usually not late.”  He starts to call his name, but he stops, frowning.  It’s warm now, and Tony is only wearing a sweatshirt, shirt, and jeans, but Bruce has his hood pulled up and his head bowed, and it doesn’t feel right.

 

He watches Bruce slip past him, open the door, and head straight for the counter.  The girls go in while Tony holds open the door, and then Tony goes over to Bruce, who’s slowly pulling off his bag.  “Bruce,” Tony whispers, coming around him.

 

He knows his stance, knows why his shoulders are rounded forward like that, knows why he’s hiding his face, and he knows to move slowly, to not cage him in.  He leaves plenty of room between the counter and the wall should Bruce need to walk away, and then he steps in front of him.

 

“Bruce,” he says again, and Bruce looks up at him sharply.

 

His face is in ruins.  He’s still bleeding from a deep cut above his eyebrow, and his jaw is turning an ugly color on the right side.  His eyes are fine, but there are deep finger marks in his neck, and his eyes are bloodshot like he’s been trying not to cry for hours.

 

“Can I—”

 

He reaches out, and Bruce breaks.  “Tony,” his voice cracks around the word, and Tony folds him away, sinks with him to his knees, and he holds Bruce, rubs circles into his back and whispers to him until he starts to calm, and then he cleans him up.

 

Later, when Betty arrives and nearly tears right back out of the shop to kill Bruce’s father, Tony pulls her back inside and away from Bruce so he can say quietly, “He’s going to call the cops to escort him to his house.  He’s going to give a statement about the abuse, but he needs the support to leave.  Peter should go with him to get his things.  I’ll stay here with you.”

 

It takes a moment, but Betty nods, and when they turn again, Peter is already shouldering Bruce’s bag and whispering something to Wade, who nods and kisses him quickly before heading back out.

 

It may take an army, but Bruce is finally safe in the end.

 

And then, the next day, after they’ve finally finished their inventory, Tony is sitting on the counter, reading Joyce while Bruce reads Rilke on his stool, and Tony knows it’s wrong, but he can’t stop himself from reaching one hand back, fingers stretching until Bruce takes his hand, tangling their fingers together.

 

They sit like that, Tony tracing small circles against the back of Bruce’s hand until the bell chimes, and Tony quickly takes his hand back when he sees Steve, a smile flashing across his face.  Steve kisses him at the same time Bruce slides off his stool and into Tony’s armchair.

 

Steve tastes like nicotine despite the coffee he tried to cover it up with, and the kiss turns to ash in Tony’s mouth because Bucky smokes.

 

_Secrets, are mine to keep,_

_Protected by silent sleep._

It’s almost the end of May, and it’s nice enough that Bruce decides he’s going to forgo the sweatshirt today.  It’s been so wonderful living above the shop, coming and going as he pleases, and Betty is still paying him full time, though she keeps yelling at him for putting in extra hours, which he’s really not, he just likes being in the shop.

 

Tony opened, and he usually goes downstairs to hang out with him, but he’d woken up feeling anxious, and so he’s spent his morning doing yoga and meditating.  After his third mug of tea, though, Bruce decides it’s finally time to join the world, and so he takes the stairs into the backroom and heads out of the door at the back of the shop.

 

He goes down the street to get them lunch, and when he comes in through the front door, Tony is nowhere in sight, but the shop is buzzing with voices and footsteps.  When he does finally find Tony, he’s been trapped in a conversation with an older woman about a fantasy novel she’s holding, though she finally shoos him away when she sees Bruce.

 

“Oh, thank god,” Tony says, following Bruce out to the front room, “It’s been crazy in here all day.  I can’t believe you didn’t come down earlier.”

 

“Crowds make me itchy.”

 

“There have been no less than eight people in here at a time all morning.”

 

Bruce wrinkles his nose, so Tony tugs on a curl and takes one of the bags.

 

They eat lunch, Tony doing most of the talking, and then it’s back to the shop, organizing where people have been, Bruce tracing the spines of those that have been handled too roughly, opening some to read a few lines to remind them they’re still loved, and helping anyone with questions.

 

By the time the end of Tony’s shift finally arrives, he’s exhausted, and Bruce has his legs up against the counter, his back stretched out on the ground.  “What a fucking day,” Tony says, slumping down into his armchair, “Is the summer usually like this?”

 

Bruce closes his eyes and yawns, so Tony nudges him with his foot, and Bruce reaches up when he won’t stop, fingers circling his ankle.  He wants to remind Tony that this can’t happen, that he’s taken, that he can’t hurt him like this, but he just traces the shape of the bone on his ankle and holds onto this moment.

 

“I have to go,” Tony says after a while, and Bruce sighs.

 

He stands up abruptly, fingers sliding away from Tony’s ankle, and he goes over to one of the front displays because he spies a few upended books.  By the time he’s fixed them and come back over to the counter, Tony is stretching.

 

“What’s tomorrow?” he asks even though he knows.

 

“Off,” Tony says, “I might go see my parents.”

 

“With Steve?” Bruce asks because he has to remind himself.

 

“No,” Tony sighs, “He’s going out with Bucky.  Or to see his parents, whom are actually living, because that’s his lie this time.  Whatever.”

 

“Is it worth it anymore?”  He means to apologize, but he forgets to say it out loud.

 

“Probably not,” Tony says before he reaches down for his bag.  He takes out a book and drops it on the counter.  “Finished Tolstoy, _please_ don’t give me something ridiculous again.”

 

“ _Lolita_ ,” Bruce says, and Tony groans pitifully, throwing himself against the counter.  Bruce just smiles and waits for him to finish before he hands over the book.  They’ve been exchanging books for a while now, suggesting them to one another, and Bruce is nearly done with the last one Tony gave him.

 

“Alright,” Tony says, shouldering his bag, “I’m probably going to call you moping about graveyards and how I shouldn’t miss my hateful father, but you know.”  He shrugs, coming around, and Bruce watches him, the way his feet are so careful and soft, but so, so familiar now.  “I’ll see you Wednesday?” he asks.

 

Bruce nods.  “Okay, chatterbox, don’t be so noisy about my two days off in a row,” Tony tries to tease, but Bruce just makes a face at him.

 

Tony snatches his book off the counter, kisses his stupid face, and turns to leave.

 

He can’t breathe.

 

Bruce’s eyes go so wide, they feel dry.

 

“Fuck,” Tony hisses, and then he turns again.  “I’m so sorry, oh my god, I can’t believe I just—that was wrong, and I—shit, shit, shit, Bruce, I shouldn’t have— _fuck_.”

 

Bruce can feel his heart thudding against his ribs.

 

“Tony,” he whispers.

 

His breaths are coming too fast, but he reaches forward and snatches up Tony’s wrist anyway, and Tony has less than a second to register Bruce is pulling him back instead of pushing him away before his mouth is brushing against Tony’s.

 

It’s an accident, but it’s the first one Tony doesn’t regret.

 

Bruce is soft and careful and pliable under Tony’s quick, sharp, hungry mouth, and he can’t help but step in closer, one hand coming up to slide along Bruce’s jaw, asking permission, fingers threading up through his hair when Bruce tugs him a little closer.

 

This, Bruce knows, is happiness.

 

Tony takes a final step, presses against Bruce, his other hand coming up to curl around Bruce’s arm, fingers digging in lightly against the muscle there.  Tony kisses him softly, this slow, wondering shift of his lips against Bruce’s until Bruce pulls away sharply, gasping.

 

“You have a boyfriend,” he says.

 

“I have a boyfriend,” Tony confirms, “Who lied to me about tomorrow so he could go see his other boyfriend.”

 

“Fuck,” Bruce says, and Tony groans, taking a step forward so he can push Bruce back against the counter.  He finds his mouth again, teeth scraping over his bottom lip until he can lick inside, sighing at the taste of Bruce.  His hands are on him, holding onto him, but he wants to feel Bruce, wants _something_ , but Bruce isn’t responding, so he starts to pull back.

 

Bruce shivers, reaching for him, one hand sliding up to come around and scrape at the nape of his neck, pulling a sigh from Tony.  Bruce kisses him with everything Tony is giving him, pushes against him even as Tony presses him in against the counter, holds him there and tries desperately not to let on how much he wants to feel his skin beneath his.

 

The bell chimes, and Bruce jerks away quickly, pushing at Tony, who goes instantly, closing his eyes as Bruce looks past him.  “Peter’s on his way in,” Wade says casually as he walks by.

 

Bruce tries to speak and fails, and so instead he walks past Tony and heads for the door.  “Bruce?” Peter asks on his way out, and Tony follows him.

 

He finds Bruce far enough down the street that Peter won’t be able to see them, and he stops far enough away from Bruce that he can escape.  “That wasn’t a mistake,” Tony says.

 

Bruce just stares at him.

 

“Please don’t do this to me,” he says.

 

Tony steps forward and kisses him again, softer this time, and Bruce can’t pull away because he doesn’t want to.  “I will never hurt you,” Tony whispers, and he believes him.

 

——

 

It happens.

 

Bruce isn’t ready for it, but the world lets it happen regardless, and he means to take a moment to step outside and shout at the universe, but there’s no time, there’s no time, and then Tony’s walking into the shop, and there’s a blooming bruise across the bridge of his nose, swelling under his eyes.

 

Bruce looks up from the armchair—his stool left him feeling uncertain today, a little ricketier than usual, and it’s concerning him enough that he doesn’t want to chance tumbling into peril, so he’s likely to scrummage around for a new one—and starts to smile his hello when his mouth freezes.  He knows Tony’s feet well enough to know he isn’t someone else, knows the shush of his shoes across the ground, and he feels like sometimes the bell is a little more obnoxious when it’s him opening the door, but somehow, he doesn’t recognize the man that’s just stepped into the shop.

 

Tony makes a vague gesture with his hand, something that trips through the air and disappears before Bruce can even pretend to understand it.

 

“It bled for what felt like years.”

 

“Your father is dead,” Bruce says, and he doesn’t know where it comes from, just that this cannot be happening, not to him.  There is no father left to hurt him, and yet here he stands, his jaw forced strong to bite back every tear that wants to fall, his thundering heart a quieted, careful thing, his energy fading into the light until he is as dark as Bruce’s unlit soul.

 

“That’s what I said,” Tony says, and then it happens again.

 

Bruce can see that he tries to quell the oncoming storm, and that, ultimately, there is no fire to quench its thirst.

 

Tony shatters, slowly.

 

Bruce watches it happen, watches him step further into the shop, watches his head go to the side because someone’s shouting his name, watches the way his shoulders dip forward, his jaw getting looser and looser until the door clamors open, and then he doesn’t watch it.

 

“Tony,” Steve pretends to shatter, “I’m so sorry.”

 

Tony tries to say something, but his mouth is frozen, too.  He wants to curl up and die.  He wants to hide from the world.  He wants Bruce to stand up and tell Steve to go away, but Peter once told him that wasn’t polite human conversation, and he knows it’s up to him to stand his ground again, but he’s so fucking tired of being awake.

 

“Tony,” Steve says his name again, and this time he sounds a little more like he’s fraying at the edges, like he might break given enough persuasion, maybe if Tony continues not to look at him, maybe if he shows his fear a little longer.

 

And then it happens again without Bruce’s consent, and he so loathes when his body does nonconsensual things—he once screamed in his father’s face without meaning to, but he’d been so furious with him, in an uncontrollable rage, blinded white with it boiling in his blood that he’d crossed the room in too many quick strides, gotten right up under his nose, and screamed at him, and he’d almost not woken up, almost lived this life he hated in a coma, which, right now, might be a better solution.

 

“Don’t touch him,” he says as he steps away from the armchair.  He doesn’t even remember standing from it, doesn’t know if he jerked upright in a fury, or if he quietly climbed upright, unsure of how to proceed.

 

Steve’s fraying edges piece themselves back together again.  “Excuse you?” he snaps at the same time relief floods over Tony’s face, and Bruce is in full understanding of his nonconsensual, traitor of a body now, which means his next step is his own.

 

He swallows, not past a thick lump in his throat, nor past a knot of worry in his stomach, but rather in defiance, to show that he can, to show that he’s not too afraid not to.  “You heard me,” he says, and it’s not hostile like Steve, but volatile like Tony.  His feet start moving, and he gives them permission, lets them carry him across the shop front and to where Tony is standing.

 

Bruce circles his fingers around Tony’s wrist, thumbs over the back of his hand, and tugs lightly.  Tony steps closer to him, and Steve bristles.  “Leave,” Bruce says quietly, but it’s the lacking thunder of Tony’s heart that infects Bruce’s voice.  He will not back down.

 

“Back off, curls,” Steve says, and it occurs to Bruce for the briefest of moments that he doesn’t know his name, that Tony never let Steve discover the life he was longing for, “This is none of your business.”

 

“Anyone with gumption and a sharp mind will take the measure of two things—what’s said and what’s done.”  Steve stares at him, bewildered, and so Bruce quickly takes a page out of Tony’s book—he’s afraid this might be a bad idea—and says, “You wouldn’t get it.”

 

Tony leaves.  He’s already gone, somewhere upstairs, curled up on the futon, with a book halfheartedly clutched to his chest, bleeding his soul into its words, and so he takes his physical body and walks it away, draws himself upstairs without upending his person on the counter.  He doesn’t know what kind of person he is today.

 

Bruce watches him go, and then he turns back to Steve, doesn’t look at him as he nods toward the door, just a quick jerk of his chin.

 

Tony’s last book for Bruce to read was something unsettling and dangerous, something that threatened the nature that Bruce knew so well, the nature of his world, and he feels the words singing in his veins, dancing through him until he has enough courage to ask, “Whose forgiveness are we waiting for?”

 

Steve frowns.

 

“He is not yours to torment,” he says, and then he turns his back, and Steve has the opportunity to be the bigger man, to shoulder his anger and his sorrow—somehow, it’s real—and his guilt, but instead he vomits it all back at Bruce, lands a nasty, knuckle-raised punch to Bruce’s spine, and it cracks through him, sends him crashing to the ground.

 

He shouts.

 

It confuses him.

 

He is a silent being.  He does not pronounce his abuse.

 

Steve turns.

 

And it happens again.

  
He is screaming at his father, his nose tucked right up under his father’s nose, his fury unleashing itself in a tidal wave that he will nearly pay for with his life, and when he stops seeing red, Steve is standing outside the shop, his eyes blown wide in something akin to terror.

 

Tony is downstairs so quickly and so loudly, it makes Bruce’s head ache, and he wants to hide.  “What the _fuck_ just happened?” Tony demands in a voice that’s broken.

 

“I don’t know,” Bruce admits, turning halfway, “Can you help me?”

 

“You were screaming.  Well—roaring, really.  You sounded like a lion.”

 

“Who was that?”

 

Tony understands with violent silence.  He runs over to Bruce, which isn’t necessary, Bruce wants to tell him, because the shop is small, but then Tony’s hands are on him—they’re not on him, they’re near him, hovering around him as he steers him toward the counter—he’s not touching him, so he can’t steer him—he’s starting to lose his footing, and he hits the floor.

 

“Bruce,” Tony’s voice says from somewhere far away, “It was Steve.”

 

“Don’t let it be him again,” Bruce says.

 

“Can I touch you?”

 

Bruce just starts nodding, and he doesn’t stop until Tony is staining his shirt, desperately trying to cry quietly, to not cry at all, to hold everything inside, but Bruce won’t stop holding him, won’t let him go, won’t let the world tear him apart, and so Tony falls.

 

_Shake off all of your sins,_

_The time has come._

Tony tells him to move on, so they move on.  A few minutes after he says it, Bruce turns to him, his eyes narrowed, and Tony starts to sigh and get off his stool when Bruce says, “You’re very bossy,” and Tony laughs so hard, he ends up in a ball on the floor, crying about his ribs hurting.

 

Finally, he manages to say, “Bruce, you’re not supposed to say the witty comebacks you think of _after_ the moment has already passed.”

 

“My world is much more accepting than yours.”

 

The days slosh by, getting hotter and hotter as they go, until one day, Bruce is so hot at night, he stays up all night trying to find somewhere cool to lie down, and eventually, when dawns rises, he just strips naked and stands under the cold spray of the shower.  When the shop opens, he commandeers Wade to man the register and kidnaps Peter.

 

“It’s hot,” is all he says, and Peter just shrugs and goes with him, shouting rules at Wade as he goes.

 

It’s a little bit of rebellion that Bruce hears about later, though Betty’s trying very hard to smother her smile as she reprimands him, but it ends in him purchasing an air conditioner, a few pieces of furniture, and other necessities he’s starting to not be able to live without, like real plates.

 

When he gets back, and when Betty’s finished, he kidnaps Peter again, who just giggles and runs away when Betty sighs and shoos Wade away from the register, and the three of them start hauling everything upstairs.

 

By the time Bruce’s shift at the shop has actually started, he’s moved all of his new things in, and he’s in a good enough mood that he doesn’t mind the increased volume in business that the warm weather is bringing in.

 

Wade gets them sushi takeaway, and when he returns with the bags, Peter shouts triumphantly and starts clearing space on the counter.  They hand their chopsticks over to Bruce, who pulls them apart obediently, and then they eat, Bruce watching as Peter and Wade chatter back and forth until Wade says something of interest, and he joins in.  When he does, Peter just grins and listens him, laughing when Bruce makes a quick face at him.

 

After they’ve finished eating, Wade claims he’s got business to attend to, and Peter just snorts at him and sticks out his tongue, which is, of course, an invitation for Wade to kiss him obnoxiously and sloppily, so Peter starts laughing while Bruce cleans up.

 

When Wade’s gone, Peter groans because the bell has chimed twice in about thirty seconds, and Bruce rubs at his temple absentmindedly.  He doesn’t mind the summer rushes, but the air conditioning in the building is having some issues, as well, and Peter’s supposed to look at it when it dies down, so Bruce is feeling anxious.  “So—” Peter begins, but Bruce is already gone, dropping down behind the counter.

 

Peter frowns and comes over.  He leans over the counter, looking down at him.  “It’s been a while.”

 

Bruce shrugs one shoulder.  He waves a vague hand around the shop front, and Peter nods.  “There’s a lot of humans in here.  At least seven.”  Bruce lets out a heavy exhale.  “Can we have a poorly planned slumber party?”

 

Bruce just blinks at Peter, and apparently that’s his go ahead because then Peter’s hopping the counter and dropping down in front of Bruce.  “Tell you what,” Peter says, slapping his knee, “You put them legs up the counter, and I’ll play with your hair.”

 

“My hero,” Bruce says sarcastically, so Peter tugs on one of his curls.  He does as he’s asked, though, and he doesn’t mean for the first sigh to contain a small noise, but it does, and then he doesn’t care because something worse than a headache is starting to leak in, and all these people are aggravating him.

 

“What’s going on with you and Tony?” Peter asks, and Bruce is surprised he’s lasted this long.

 

He makes another nondescript flip of his fingers, and then sighs.  “I don’t know,” he admits.

 

The bell chimes, and then, four seconds later, again.  “I don’t like,” but he trails off, and Peter nods.

 

“Yeah, me either.”

 

“Is there anyone that works here?” a bubbly, high-pitched voice asks as two sets of elbows come crashing down on the counter, and Bruce drops a hand over his eyes.

 

“Are you looking for anything specific?” Peter asks, leaning to the side so they can see him better.

 

“Oh my god,” one of the girls says, “You two are so cute.”

 

Peter just quirks an eyebrow.  “Ask him,” her other friend whispers, nudging her.

 

“Right,” she says, “Is there someone else that works here?”

 

“Tony,” Bruce whispers.

 

“No,” Peter says, and Bruce peers up at him.

 

“Are you sure?  We totally thought—”

 

“We fired him.  Bad for business,” Peter says quickly, “Anything specific I can help you with?”

 

They look crestfallen.  Peter feels victorious.  “Um—no, I guess.”

 

The bell chimes again.

 

“There are ten persons in here right now,” Bruce murmurs.

 

“We’re going to have to be persons,” Peter says, and Bruce frowns at him.  “Sorry, love.”

 

He gives his head a good scratch, and then he gets them both to their feet before he steps in close and winds his arms around Bruce.  He’s not expecting it, and so Bruce doesn’t hug him back, just stands there until Peter squeezes him, and then Bruce slowly returns the embrace.  “Please don’t let him hurt you,” he whispers against his ear, “I really don’t want to have to go to jail.  That’s Wade’s job.”

 

Bruce laughs, this soft, careful little thing, and Peter pulls back when he feels like Bruce’s smile is a solid, true thing.  Peter lifts a fist.  Bruce’s brow furrows.

 

“Come on, man.  Give me some exploding fist action.”  Bruce obligingly bumps fists and blows up his fingers after, and then they get to work.

 

They spend the day running themselves into the ground.  The shop has never been this busy, and Bruce keeps wondering if it’s a holiday or something, but really, it’s July, and it’s the tourist season, and people just like to wander around every shop they come across.

 

His day is filled with fixing shelves, replacing misplaced books, reading opening, middle, and last lines to give the books a breath of someone who understands, tracing spines, undoing dog ears and folded covers and little pencil marks.  He can never understand why people deface books they haven’t yet purchased.  It’s one thing if it’s already on your shelf, and it’s yours, and you love it, and you’ve cherished it from the moment it was placed on your shelf, but it’s another thing entirely to touch someone’s else book, to handle it without care, and then to put it back.  Bruce empties carts only to refill them, fixes the same display six times, whines softly when people ask for directions and just ends up pointing in the general direction, which usually gets him a fair share of heavy sighs before they go looking for Peter, and disappears once out back because his hands are shaking, and his head is going to roll right off his shoulders, and he keeps thinking about screaming at Steve, screaming at his father, screaming at someone, he can’t remember who.

 

They’re busy right up until they close.  Peter leaves an hour late, and he’s apologetic even then, but he and Wade are going out on a date, and he’s been so excited about it all week that Bruce shoos him out the door.  And then, it’s just him and the humans.

 

They keep asking questions, whether it’s to do with recommendations or help finding a gift or where there’s good food or if the coffee shop down the street is good or what time they close, and every single person doesn’t understand that they don’t have a set closing time.  They close when the sun’s done with the day, and so it changes every day, and it’s such a foreign concept that Bruce just starts saying six o’clock because he wants to curl up on the floor and cry.

 

Around five thirty, he hasn’t eaten, and there are three people in the store when the shop’s phone rings.  Bruce wants to throw it against the wall.

 

“Spine Theory, how can I help you?”

 

“How many people are there?”

 

“Help,” he says, and Tony laughs.

 

“That many?”

 

“Three.  My eyes can’t see anymore.”

 

“Are you okay?” Tony asks, concern dipping into his voice.

 

“My stomach is somewhere else.”

 

“Bruce—”

 

“There are _nails_ in my head.”  He’s never enjoyed interrupting people, but there’s about an hour until the sun starts to set, and he might go outside and light a fire if he can’t go upstairs soon.

 

“Thai or Indian curry?”

 

“Thai.  Vegetables.  Yellow.  Extra everything.  Crab rangoons.  Hurry.”

 

Tony arrives in thirty minutes, laden with a big brown bag and chaider.  Bruce wants to kiss him.  There’s no one left in the store, and the street is fairly empty, so Tony asks, “How angry would Betty be if you closed early?”

 

“Not very, but I don’t want to take advantage of her.”

 

Tony nods, and so he sets up shop behind the counter.  Bruce joins him on the ground, and they have a quiet, soft spoken dinner together.  It’s the rest of Bruce’s already spent energy, though, and so when Tony finishes cleaning up, and Bruce finishes closing up, he says, “I have to lock up.”

 

“I can’t stay?” Tony asks, and Bruce’s heart stands still.

 

He just stares at Tony, unable to process his request.  He wants to tell him to leave, to stop tempting fate, to go back to his life and forget he ever felt his voice.

 

“Steve,” Bruce says very quietly.

 

Tony shakes his head.  “I don’t know how to do it, Bruce.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

Tony starts moving, and Bruce starts backing up, but then his hand hits one of the displays, and he stops in time for Tony to stop in front of him.  He shakes his head again, looking down.  “I know he’s toxic.  I know I need to get out, but I don’t know how.  He’s all I’ve ever known.”

 

“I got out,” Bruce whispers, and he’s never said it before, and it hurts.  It hurts, and he’s not expecting it to, and his chest tightens enough that he wants to press on it, but he doesn’t want to move and instigate further action from Tony.

 

“I hate saying it out loud,” Tony says, and then he lifts a hand to press against Bruce’s chest, “It hurts right behind my sternum.  Not my heart, but close.  It’s hard to breathe.”

 

Bruce remembers his quiet feet, remembers his excitement when they were stocking shelves, remembers the confrontation and the sharp kiss and the soft hands.  He wants that.  He wants all of it.  He wants him, he realizes.

 

“Tony,” he whispers, and then he steps through what little distance is between them and kisses Tony.  It’s not like their accident, and it’s not like what came after.  It’s fragile and desperate, and Tony doesn’t move as Bruce kisses him, though he sighs against his mouth, wants so much more than what he’s giving.

 

He wants to give Bruce the world.

 

Their first inhale alone is sharp.  “I got out,” Bruce says again to Tony, _for_ Tony.

 

Tony finally moves, reaches up and threads a hand around his jaw, thumb hooking around as his fingers stretch toward his hair.  He pulls him back, kisses him with every ounce of longing he’s been saving up, and Bruce reacts like he’s not expecting, stepping in closer, their bodies a hair apart, and then his tongue is tracing Tony’s bottom lip, and he caves.

 

He tastes him, learns the shape of Bruce’s mouth, the sharp contours of his teeth and the ridges of the roof, the swell of his cheeks and the warmth of his tongue.  He breathes him in, pulls him in, presses them flush together, and groans when he finds Bruce hard.

 

Bruce starts to retreat, and Tony lets him, knows that he can’t hurt him like this.  When they finally resurface, when Bruce breathes the stale air of the shop instead of Tony’s soul, Tony says, “I’m coming back for you,” and then he’s gone.

 

——

It’s windy the day it all ends.

 

It’s warm and beautiful, and Peter has left the shop doors open when Bruce comes downstairs.  He mumbles something about bugs, promises to be back in a couple hours with lunch, and then he starts walking.  He walks the length of their street, loops around on the back end, and then does it again, comes out into the busiest section of their little town, and then he starts heading for the beach, taking the long way, the scenic route, the one with trees and small children playing, the one where he used to live.

 

He passes by his house, and he doesn’t mean to, but he lifts his hand in something like a wave because his mother is outside gardening, and she sees him, somehow.  She stands, something like disbelief crossing her face as she lifts an irresponsible hand and waves back.  The door opens, and Bruce keeps walking, even as he hears his father’s voice, “Is that—”

 

“No,” his mother says, and Bruce almost turns, just to prove them all wrong, but he’s not feeling rebellious today.

  
When he finally reaches the beach, the sun is hot, but in a loving sort of way, and he toes out of his shoes, sinks them deep in the warm sand, and closes his eyes, breathing in the salt wind.

 

He hears an exclamation, and he opens his eyes, lets them travel left until he sees a man on his knee and a woman pulling him upright.  She’s crying, and he’s beaming, and Bruce thinks that maybe someday he might wish for something like that, but for now, he’s okay breathing alone.

 

He spends his time at the beach, legs in the water, shirt and shoes in the sand, welcoming the world back.  “It’s been a while,” he says softly when he’s finished, and then he goes to put on his shirt.

 

Bruce doesn’t know what possesses him, but he takes his phone from his pocket, opens up a new message to Tony, and types, _I am the tide_.

 

He’s never texted with Tony before, is nervous of how his response might look, how it might form, how it might _be_ , and he tells himself not to worry, that Tony knows words, that he understands, and then he remembers that he asked for the day off to be with Steve, and he wants to fling his phone into the ocean.

 

 _I am a rock holding still in your wake_.

 

Bruce isn’t ready for that kind of response, so he pockets his phone again and heads back into town.  He doesn’t take the long way this time, doesn’t want to see his father even though he thinks, now, he could stand tall and withstand.

 

He stops at this new Mexican place that’s opened up on one of the busier streets, gets them something colorful for lunch, and when he returns to the bookstore for his shift, Wade is there, and he’s grateful he remember he existed in terms of food.

 

They eat their burritos and chips and queso and guacamole and chimichangas and laughter surrounded by persons floating in and out.  It’s a slow day, too hot for a bookstore, for any store, really, and so they leave the door open, Wade redirects any bugs that travel their way, and it’s a day that tries desperately to shine brightly in Bruce’s memory.

 

Around closing time, as the sun is sinking lower and lower in the sky, a bell chimes, and Bruce says, very quietly, “Closing with the sun.  It’s almost there.”

 

“Where is he?”

 

He looks around abruptly.  Steve is standing there.  Bruce frowns.

 

“Where is he?” he echoes, and Steve bristles, makes this face like he wants to punch Bruce in the spine with knuckles raised again.  Bruce shifts one shoulder, worries about the casualties his back has already had to undergo.

 

“Don’t be stupid with me, curls,” Steve says.

 

Bruce wishes, sometimes, that he could just have some kind of warning before his body does nonconsensual things because then he might have known the outcome when he says, “I have a name.”

 

“I don’t give a _fuck_ what your name is,” Steve says, and he approaches.

 

“Hey there, kitten,” Betty says as she comes in from the back.  Bruce always forgets that she’s here.  He remembers with startling clarity now, and an exhale of relief explodes out of him.  He’s not ready to be a fighter.

 

Steve wants to bristle again, but he doesn’t know Betty, doesn’t understand her involvement, and so he simply repeats his question, “Where is he?”

 

Then, it occurs to Bruce.

 

 _I am a rock holding still in your wake_.

 

The tide comes and goes.

 

He’s no longer standing still.

 

——

 

There’s a moment where Bruce feels heartbreak, intimately, and then it’s over.  Tony was never his to mourn.  He takes his own advice and moves on.

 

Peter keeps checking up on him until he stops, and then September is rolling around, and he starts asking Betty for less hours again.  Bruce can tells she wants to hire someone again, but the loss is still fresh, and sometimes Betty puts his name on the schedule for no reason at all.  She stops when Bruce refuses to show up for the shift she gives him that needs to be covered because he’s not there, and he’s not coming back, and then she has to work a double, and Tony’s name doesn’t show up on the schedule again.

 

Steve stops coming by almost immediately.  He spends a week loitering around the shop, waiting for Tony to jump out of the shadows, maybe, but then it’s over.  He’s done.  He moves on, and he doesn’t abuse Bucky, and Bruce hates him for it.

 

Steve tries to come into the shop once with Bucky, and Bucky takes one look at Steve and whispers something Bruce is always afraid of, “This might be a bad idea,” and it sounds so much like Tony that Steve shrinks a little and turns out.

 

They enlist in the army together just after Christmas.  They leave in March.  Bruce throws shreds of paper that he’s torn up into the air just before they close, and Peter grumbles at him as he starts collecting it.

 

In April, Peter brings someone in to interview with Betty.  They’re old high school friends, and Bruce isn’t sure about him.  He’s fiery and quick-witted and sharp with soft edges, and he makes Bruce a little nervous.  Eventually, they learn a rhythm, and Johnny doesn’t set him on edge as much by the time the weather starts getting warm again.

 

And then, one day, in June, the bell chimes, but Bruce is trying not to tumble over with a stack of books in his arms while he works out a new display, so it’s Johnny that says, “Namaste, bro.”

 

Bruce makes a disgruntled noise and keeps shuffling his books around.  A breeze floats through the shop, and Bruce realizes with utter disgust that the person has propped the door open.  He doesn’t understand why people try to dismantle his carefully structured environment with their idle hands and short-lived touches.

 

“Now the moon is in the right place after years of spinning around the sun,” he says.

 

Bruce stops breathing.

 

He doesn’t turn around.  He can’t.

 

Peter comes out of the back room rambling, “Okay, so I’ve got a good comparison book for the hardcover, Bruce, but—holy shit.”

 

He stops moving.  He looks at Bruce, tries to gauge how they’re supposed to handle this.

 

Finally, Bruce lets out a very heavy breath and turns around, his stack of books wobbling before it thuds back against his chest.  “Everyone gets what they want too fast these days,” he says quietly, “No one knows the way to make things last.”

 

Tony lifts a hand to his chest, fingers spread, and it’s not his heart that hurts, but the space right beneath his sternum, this dull ache that flares when the night is cool, and his fingers aren’t there to warm the spaces between his own.

 

He’s just _standing there_ , standing still.

 

“You’re an ass,” Bruce says abruptly, and Tony’s laugh erupts out of him, short and surprised and everything that Bruce’s unlit soul is missing.

 

“Yeah,” Tony says, nodding, “Most of the time.”

 

“And the other two percent?”

 

“It’s that low?”

 

“It’s been 341 days.”

 

Tony almost cuts loose a sharp remark, but he just inhales instead, staring at Bruce.  It takes him a moment, but then he suggests, “Put down your books?”

 

“They’re not mine,” Bruce says, and then he’s turning halfway, leaving the books haphazardly on the new display before he crosses the room, and Tony knows, just from the quiet thunder of his feet, that he’s not angry, not yet.

 

Peter looks away.

 

Johnny makes a soft noise of amazement.

 

Bruce kisses Tony.

 

It’s a moment to hold onto, a final tidal wave, and he lets him have everything, every silent moment filled with violence, every shattering void filled with unspoken screams, every in between, and Tony just holds on, hands coming up to cradle Bruce’s jaw, anchoring them there, and Bruce finally stops running.

 

_Let us be brave._

**Author's Note:**

> If you’ve read Maggie Stiefvater’s _Shiver_ , you’ll see a lot of similarities to the very small space in time when Sam worked in the bookstore. I’ve had a lovely time writing this. Though most of it was written a few months ago while I was visiting Erin, it’s been a nice breath of fresh air from the rest of my writing world. I hope you enjoyed, and don’t forget to leave your thoughts!


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